The Veteran and the Wizard
by Skyla Ladona
Summary: It's 1919 and Brannoc is a World War I veteran trying to live a normal life behind the bar at the Dover Dove. His life becomes anything but normal when a man with half-moon spectacles and an impressive auburn beard orders a glass of mead. Now Brannoc's world is filled with phoenixes, elves, Dementors, Dark Wizards, and a war Brannoc barely understands. (Dumbledore/ OC)
1. Prologue: Muggle Lover

It's 1919 and Brannoc is a World War I veteran trying to live a normal life behind the bar at the Dover Dove. His life becomes anything but normal when a man with half-moon spectacles and an impressive auburn beard orders a glass of mead. Now Brannoc's world is filled with phoenixes, elves, Dementors, Dark Wizards, and a war Brannoc barely understands. (Dumbledore/ OC)

* * *

Prologue: Muggle Lover

* * *

_An excerpt from the notes of the late Albus Dumbledore on "The Wizard and the Hopping Pot."_

By the seventeenth century, any witch or wizard who chose to fraternize with Muggles became suspect, even an outcast in his or her own community. Among the many insults hurled at pro-Muggle witches and wizards (such fruity epithets as "Mudwallower," "Dunglicker," and Scumsucker" date from this period) was the charge of having weak or inferior magic.

Influential wizards of the day such as Brutus Malfoy, editor of the _Warlock at War_, an anti-Muggle periodical, perpetuated the stereotype that a Muggle-lover was about as magical as a Squib. In 1675, Brutus wrote:

_This we may state with certainty: Any wizard who shows fondness for the society of Muggles is of low intelligence, with magic so feeble and pitiful that he can only feel himself superior if surrounded by Muggle pig-men. Nothing is a surer sign of weak magic than a weakness for non-magical company. _

This prejudice eventually died out in the face of overwhelming evidence that some of the world's most brilliant wizards3 were, to use the common phrase, "Muggle lovers."

Footnotes

3\. Such as myself.


	2. Chapter 1: Plum Velvet Dandy

Chapter 1: Plum Velvet Dandy

* * *

It was April 9th, 1919, in Dover, England, and Brannoc Oakland couldn't help himself. For the life of him, he could not stop casting secret glances at the very tall man with the auburn hair and beard who sat in the corner of his pub. He looked to be about 30, the same age as Brannoc. The dandy wore a flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet and high-heeled, buckled boots. His beard was impressive and was the same shade as his waist length auburn hair. Drinking from a glass of mead, the stranger quietly skimmed through a large tome with a long pale hand.

"Well, you don't see a man like _that_ everyday," Brannoc's older brother Daniel murmured when he noticed who Brannoc was staring at. Daniel Oakland was 35, built like an ox, and was the pub's best cook. "Stop staring, it's rude," his older brother added with a smirk. Brannoc felt his cheeks warm and he pointedly looked away. "Oh, by the way," Daniel added. "We're fresh out of biscuits in the pantry. I swear, they're just disappearing lately. Buy some more tomorrow, will you?" he added before he walked back into the kitchens.

Brannoc tore his sea-foam eyes away yet again from the stranger and surveyed the rest of the pub. Patrons, mostly regulars, were tucking into fish and chips, corned beef, and potatoes. They spoke quietly among themselves. His dog, a large gray wolf-hound named Phil, lay with his head on his giant paws near the entrance.

Brannoc was a broad shouldered, muscular man of about 5 foot 10. His hair was a dark brown, which he kept short and parted down the middle. Disfiguring scars dotted his neck, hands, and up his arms, disappearing under his sleeves and the collar of his grey buttoned shirt. It was always interesting when people at the pub asked about those scars. Whenever he responded with "Got them in the war," the majority of the patrons stopped talking completely, would apologize, or would nod solemnly and ask no more questions.

But Frank Olsen wasn't one of the patrons who stopped asking questions tonight. He and his buddy Willy Murphy were sitting at the bar counter, gazing openly at Brannoc's disfigurements. "So _that_ was mustard gas that did it?" Olsen asked, nodding at Brannoc's scars, before he took a long chug of ale.

"Yes," Brannoc replied, a slight frown creasing his brows. "That's what did it."

Olsen nodded, trying to collect his thoughts. It seemed to be getting harder for him as the years went by. Unlike Brannoc, who was honorably discharged from the British Army due to his injuries in the autumn of 1917, Olsen had seen battles until the very end of the Great War last year in 1918. The ghosts of it still swarmed in his eyes whenever he was sober, and even more so when he was drunk. After staring at Brannoc's scars for another minute, Olsen looked up quickly into Brannoc's young face. "How'd it happen?" he asked, curious.

Olsen's buddy Willy sighed. "Frank, don't ask that."

"We were gassed in Ypres," Brannoc replied flatly. He noticed that the patrons of the pub had gone quiet. Though they did not look at him, he knew they were listening. Some of the regulars were hearing about the story for the first time. The third battle of Ypres in 1917, Belgium, had the highest casualty count of any of the Great War's battles and Brannoc had been in the thick of it.

"Gas didn't get in your lungs?" Olsen said.

"No," Brannoc said. "Gas mask kept the gas out. I just have the scars on the skin."

Olsen nodded after another sip of ale, his eyes haunted and faraway. "My whole squad was taken out by shells," the man said. "Dead, all of them, in an instant. I was lucky. _You_ were lucky. But I wonder if the two of us really are lucky. Sometimes I wish the shells had taken me out too. You must feel that way. How many mates of yours got taken out while you lived? Must make you feel guilty."

Brannoc had no reply to give him.

Olsen took another sip and realized that there was nothing left in the glass. "Bran, another," he slurred.

Brannoc shook his head. "I'm cutting you off, Olsen. You've had enough."

Olsen glared at him, his face turning almost purple with rage. "I've had enough when I say I've had enough!" he growled. He rose from the bar stool and began to saunter out the door. His friend Willy stood up with confusion.

"Olsen, you haven't paid yet." Brannoc called, but the man kept walking towards the door. Brannoc approached him from behind. "Oy!" He realized too late that this was the last thing he should have done.

Olsen, forgetting he was in a pub and not in a war, was a fast drunk. He whirled around, the flash of a knife glinting in the light of the lamps in his hand. Brannoc doubled over, gasping, as pain exploded in his ribs. Brannoc moved before his thoughts caught up with him and he found himself hurling Olsen to the floorboards, an impressive feat considering Olsen was much bigger than him. Olson's hand flew open and something fell out of it while Brannoc held back Phil as the giant wolf-hound lunged to attack the fallen man. "Olsen!" Brannoc shouted, but it came out as a grunt of pain.

The drunk's only reply was a groan.

"_Jesus Christ, Olsen!_" Willy yelled. "Why'd you do that?! _Bran_, I don't know why—"

"Just take him home, Willy. He's had enough to drink for a lifetime," Brannoc said evenly, his nerves on high alert in case the drunk, or someone else, decided to have a go at him. He managed to get Phil to stop trying to attack Olsen, but the wolf-hound continued to growl protectively by his side.

Willy paid for their drinks and Brannoc watched him half drag Olsen from the bar. They disappeared into the night and only then did Phil decide it was safe to stop growling. Brannoc pressed a hand over his chest. Instead of feeling the blossoming of blood there, he felt the beginnings of a wonderful bruise over his ribs. He crouched down to scratch Phil behind the ears and picked up the thing that Olsen had dropped. It certainly was not something Brannoc thought the drunk would carry around. It was deep a purple handkerchief with little embroidered white stars that sparkled. "The hell?" he muttered. He could have sworn the man was going to knife him, not give him something to blow his nose with.

Phil licked the side of Brannoc's face, dragging him out of his thoughts, and he realized that the patrons were all staring at him in shock. He rose from his crouch, tucked the handkerchief into his pocket, and returned to the bar with Phil loping beside him.

"Are you all right?"

Brannoc looked up. The dandy in plum velvet who had been sitting in the corner of the pub was now sitting at the bar with his glass of mead, his large tome resting on the counter as if it had been there all night. Brannoc found himself staring at the sparkling blue eyes that gazed at him over half-moon spectacles and a crooked nose. For a moment, he could look at nothing else but those eyes.

Then Brannoc grinned disarmingly at the stranger with his best flirtatious smile. He was rewarded by the slight flush underneath the auburn beard. _I still got it, _Brannoc thought. "I've had worse hits. Sorry about the commotion."

"It has not clouded my judgement of this place. I quite like this pub so far."

"Do you want anything else besides mead?" Brannoc asked.

The strange man smiled. "Perhaps some conversation?" he said.

Brannoc's grin broadened and he reached out a broad hand. "Brannoc Oakland," he said.

The stranger shook his hand firmly with a long fingered grasp. "Albus Dumbledore," the man replied. "Are you the proprietor of this pub?"

Brannoc nodded, letting go of his hand. "One of them. This is the Dover Dove, the Oakland family business. My brother's in the kitchen. My cousins are the fishers. Sometimes my sister's the musician. I'm one of the bar tenders. Phil here is the greeter, and also the bodyguard, apparently." He nodded to the giant wolf-hound, whose tail was thumping against the bar as Albus scratched him behind the ears. "He likes you."

"I am greatly honored," Albus replied with a smile.

Brannoc nodded regally. "As you should be. How's that mead treating you?" Brannoc asked.

The man regarded the amber drink. "It's excellent," he replied, swirling it in the glass.

Brannoc made his rounds about the pub, checking on patrons, and returned back to the bar. "What are you reading?" he asked Albus, curious.

The auburn haired man looked up from his book. "Canterbury Tales," he said. Brannoc realized the book was a university textbook similar to the ones he had seen at Oxford.

Brannoc grinned down at the Middle English words on the page. "I read that one while I was at Oxford before the war. I even studied Middle English. _And_ Old English. History, literature, and folklore were my focuses." Brannoc realized he sounded like he was bragging and he cleared his throat a little. "Are you reading for curiosity's sake or are you a teacher of literature?"

"Curiosity's sake, though it's interesting you brought up teaching. I was just hired to teach in the Fall." Despite his outward confidence, there was suddenly an air of nervous excitement about Albus. "It will be my first teaching position."

"Congratulations," Brannoc said and poured himself a soda water, raising the glass. "A toast to your future in education. May it be a successful and fruitful journey." They clinked glasses and drank to Albus's new career. "What subject are you teaching?"

"Science," Albus responded.

"Any specific field of it?"

The electricity flickered and went out, darkness filling the bar, the patrons gasping in surprise. "Why'd the lights go off, Bran?" his older brother Daniel called as his steps thundered out of the kitchens, his eyes wide. "What's going o—"

Brannoc held up his hand, silencing his brother instantly. Fighting as long as Brannoc did in the war had given him a knack for knowing when things weren't quite right. Right now, that knack was making the hair on the back on of his neck stand on end as he stared out at the eerily quiet street through the window. Phil growled and planted his paws firmly on the floorboards. In the light of the moon, Brannoc could see the white of Phil's fangs and the tense lines of his shaggy gray back. Brannoc grabbed the pistol he kept under the bar and strode towards the door.

A strong hand grasping him like a vice around the wrist brought him to an abrupt halt. "_Stay back!_" Albus hissed in his ear. The tall man was holding a slender stick of ebony firmly in his long fingered grasp that he used to point at the door. Brannoc couldn't imagine, as the door slowly swung open, how a stick was going to defend them against the invisible horror standing in the doorway . . .

_Sounds of gunfire, the shouts, the rapid fire orders of "MASKS ON! MASKS ON" echoed in the dark, sightless void. But some of the soldiers weren't fast enough. His squad was yelling around him. He could hear his best friend John screaming, choking, drowning beside him—_

"_Expecto Patronum_!"

A bright silver light filled the pub, driving away the dark, and Brannoc gasped, opening his eyes. Clammy sweat had broken out on his forehead, chilling him to the bone as he shivered uncontrollably. He was on the floor, on his back, and Phil was curled up against him. Daniel was worriedly calling out his name and holding his shoulders while the patrons were crying out in confusion and fear.

Brannoc blearily looked up. Albus was standing over him. A silver light was blazing from the tip of his ebony stick, the radiance reflecting off his half-moon spectacles. Brannoc could feel a strange vibration in the floorboards below him. The air around Albus hummed as if with a song.

The disembodied evil presence in the doorway retreated and the lights flickered back on.

Then there were five loud _cracks_ like gun shots right outside of the pub. Two women and three men, all wearing the oddest looking cloaks Brannoc had ever seen, pushed opened the doors to the pub and strode in. "Albus Dumbledore, I am surprised at you," drawled a voice. "Casting in front of Muggles like that. That was not necessary."

"Am I to assume you knew, Doliph, that a Dementor was roaming the streets of Dover?" Albus said sharply. He lowered the stick, his blue eyes blazing with anger. Though Brannoc thought it was a good look for him, he was glad those angry eyes weren't directed at him.

The man called Doliph sighed. He was middle aged, his black hair shoulder length, and had an air about him as if he had just walked into a room full of children. Unlike the muted tones of gray worn by his associates, his cloak was crimson red. "Of course. The creature is on patrol for the house elf fugitive," Doliph drawled. "Surly there was no need to cast a Patronus Charm here." He swept a hand broadly to indicate the confused pub patrons. "_They_ would have seen nothing. It would have just looked around and gone about its business with no harm done. Now we have a _whole_ pub to Obliviate." He shook his head. "What an inconvenience."

This only made Albus's eyes shine brighter with anger. Brannoc rose shakily to a sitting position, Phil whimpering and licking his face, while his brother Daniel patted him on the back.

Doliph caught sight of Brannoc. "Ah, one of them fell over. Ferris, he'll be the first."

"He will be tended to before that," Albus said firmly.

"Ah yes, that is for the best. We certainly do not want him to think he's taken ill when he can't remember why. Once you are done, Dumbledore, call on Ferris."

Brannoc scratched Phil behind the ear, using the dog's warmth as an anchor, as he heard the voices of the strangers talking to the patrons in calming voices. Daniel was standing in front of Doliph and demanding to know what was going on. "What happened? What the _hell_ happened to my brother? What was that light? Who are you?"

Brannoc knew he should be standing, should be asking questions like Daniel, but instead he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to stare at the scars the mustard gas had left behind. For a moment, it was as though he had been back in Ypres, during the war, hearing John's screams as he died.

Brannoc heard a sharp intake of breath and he looked up, but Albus was already looking away from his arm. The tall man was breaking up a large block of chocolate. Then, to Brannoc's utter confusion, Albus passed him part of it. Brannoc laughed despite himself as his teeth chattered from the cold. "I'm flattered, sweetheart, but I don't think this is the right time," he whispered and grinned up at the sparkling blue eyes. _They really are nice eyes, _he thought.

Despite everything, a smile tugged at the corners of Albus's lips from under his beard. "It's a remedy," Albus said quietly. "It will help."

Brannoc ate the chocolate and was surprised to find warmth returning to his limbs. "Magic chocolate then?" he muttered. He caught the strange look Albus gave him. "What?" he asked.

"You are taking this situation better than I would have expected," Albus said.

Brannoc laughed. "How _should_ I be taking it? Whatever you did got rid of that _thing_."

Albus's eyes widened. "You saw it?"

Brannoc frowned. "I didn't see anything, but I _felt_ it. . . Like it was _watching_ me. You mean to say you saw—"

"Dumbledore, are you _quite_ finished?" Doliph drawled.

"One moment," Albus said calmly. He clasped Brannoc's scarred hand firmly and pulled him to his feet. The smile he gave Brannoc was sad. "It was nice to meet you, Brannoc." He put his payment for the mead on the bar counter. Brannoc made an unsteady step to follow.

"Ah, I see you are up and about," said one of the cloaked strangers cheerfully. He walked right up to Brannoc and blocked Albus from view. This cloaked stranger was a gangly man of about 24 who looked at Brannoc as if he were a simpleton. "Bill Ferris. Nice to meet you. Come right this way. I have another remedy that will make you feel better." The man called Ferris began leading him into the kitchen. Glancing back at the rest of the pub, Brannoc saw that Albus had disappeared. He turned back around and noticed Ferris's hand disappearing into his gray robes to grip a stick similar to the one Albus had been holding.

Brannoc took a deep breath and plastered on a dumb, confused, but harmless look on his face. "Excuse me, Ferris?" Brannoc asked as the kitchen door swung closed behind them. "Who are you lot, if I may ask?"

Ferris chuckled. "Oh, I may as well tell you. You will forget all about this whole mess soon enough." Brannoc held himself back from yelling "Wait, what?" in favor of standing there with the dumb look still on his face. Ferries drew out the stick from his pocket. "Witches and Wizards. Obliviators of the British Ministry of Magic, at your service."

Brannoc stared at the stick in the young man's procession. Perhaps it was the delirium he had experienced earlier, but he was suddenly wondering if the stick in Ferris's hand and the stick Albus had wielded earlier were _wands_. But that was _absurd_. "Witches and wizards?" Brannoc asked with false calm, but he didn't have to feign the confusion on his face this time. When Ferris raised the stick a little, he fought his instinct to run.

Ferries nodded. "Yes. Witches and Wizards. We are very real." Bill Ferris grinned cheerfully. "Surprise! Because of the fugitive, there are about 40 of us right now here in Dover. But there are billions of us in the world, living alongside you Muggles in secret." The tip of his wand was glowing.

"Muggles?" Brannoc said.

Ferris smiled patronizingly. "'Muggle' is our word for people like you with no magic. Each country has their own name for you people, of course, like 'No-Maj' in America. I like the term 'No-Maj' slightly more than 'Muggle,' don't you? It sounds like a drink." He pointed the wand at Brannoc's forehead and spoke, "_Obliv—" _Brannoc grabbed Ferris's hand, grappling with him."_iate_!" Ferris finished.

There was a blinding flash of light. Brannoc blinked spots from his eyes to see Ferris standing very still with a dazed look on his face. After a few seconds, the young man seemed to remember himself and looked up at Brannoc with surprise. "Oh, hello there." For a moment, Ferris turned his head about to stare around the kitchen in confusion and then he stumbled out of the pub through the back door.

Brannoc distractedly closed the half opened pantry door and hurried out of the kitchens back to the bar. The patrons were talking among themselves, tucking into their food as if nothing had happened. Even Brannoc's pistol was back in its proper place under the counter.

Daniel was talking to a few of the patrons about the fish and chips. "Pepper and salt. That's all the seasonings I added," he was saying, his huge arms crossed over his chest casually. He looked up at Brannoc. "Two ales for this table."

Brannoc stared. His brother's concern and anger from earlier had completely disappeared. Brannoc poured two ales, served the drinks, and returned to the bar to find Daniel staring at confusion at the counter. "Who ordered the mead?" his brother asked, eyeing the pounds and Albus's empty glass of mead.

Brannoc stared at Daniel incredulously. "The tall dandy with the auburn beard and the wand," he replied.

Daniel looked at him as if he was insane. "The _who_?"

Brannoc's jaw dropped. "The man wearing the plum velvet suit. The one with the high heeled-buckled boots." Daniel's eyebrows kept rising towards his hairline with each added description. Brannoc grew frustrated. "He was reading Canterbury Tales! He saved the pub. You _commented_ about his looks."

Daniel laughed nervously. "_I_ commented about his looks?" Daniel asked quietly, eying his brother as he joked with him privately. "Aren't you the one who usually—" Then he frowned in concern when he saw the pallor of Brannoc's face. "Are you coming down with something?" he said with gruff concern. "How are the scars?"

Brannoc brushed off his older brother's concern. "I'm fine."

"What was this about him saving the pub?"

"Nothing. I was just . . . It was a bad joke."

"Go home, Bran. Take the rest of the night off."

Brannoc stared in confusion down at the floor. Phil walked over to him, whining, and nuzzled his hand with a wet nose. The wolf-hound was still trembling with fear. "_You_ remember," he whispered softly. "At least someone does." Brannoc scratched the dog's ears, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the purple handkerchief with the little white stars and stared at it.

Brannoc pulled his coat off the hook, shrugged it on, and said his goodbyes to Daniel and the patrons. He and Phil walked home. Phil sniffed the air nervously while Brannoc stared at shadows and listened very carefully to the sounds of the night.

Brannoc walked into his small, one floor house, locked the door tightly, and rechecked the locks several times. He unlocked his pistol from his lockbox, loaded it, and placed it within easy reach. Phil chose that moment to walk over to the side of his bed, plop down on the floor, and snore. Brannoc gave a sigh of relief. If his dog was resting, perhaps he could rest too.

Brannoc winced as he shrugged out of his coat and shirt and stared down at the bruise over his heart from Olsen's punch. He changed into night clothes and laid down in bed, staring at the ceiling. Wizards? Witches? A secret society? Muggles?

Brannoc continued to the stare up at the ceiling, the breeze of the English Channel blowing, making the old wooden walls creak, until his eyelids grew heavy. He had dreams of the auburn haired Albus, the ebony wand in his hand casting warm silver light in the cold darkness.


	3. Skyla's Original Fiction

If you have enjoyed my writing, consider checking out my p.a.t.r.e.o.n, where I post original fiction under the name **Atlanas E. Kildarin**

You will have to take the dots out of p.a.t.r.e.o.n, take out the extra spaces, and put a / between com and user for the link to work. (It would not let me put up the whole link.)

www.p.a.t.r.e.o.n . com user?u=7359995

Current Story on P.a.t.r.e.o.n : **Earth and Sky**

Earth and Sky is about three young men-Owen Franklin, Gaudet, and Gill Montero-who hike the Appalachian Trail together and fall in love.

**Owen Franklin** trained for months to get into the best shape of his life so he could hike the Appalachian Mountain Trail with his best friend. But after a terrible falling out, they part ways. Owen stubbornly decides that he will still go on the hike, even if he has to hike it all by himself. Then he meets Gill and Gaudet, and his stoic plan to hike the trail alone is abandoned.

**Thomas Gaudet**, known by his friends as "Gaudet," works hard, has two jobs, graduated with good grades at a small high school in Hot Springs, North Carolina, and just got outed as gay by his pastor to his mother. After withstanding three months of intervention, Gaudet escapes next-door to the Appalachian Trail, where he surrenders himself to the goodwill of strangers in the absence of his family's.

**Gill Montero** never felt right in his own skin once he hit puberty. It's only during his final year of college, when he participates in a Drag King competition, that he explores his gender identity. Instead of filling out an application for graduate school, he takes a year off from school after graduation to live as a man and to train for a Thru-Hike of the Appalachian trail.

Disclaimer: The story takes place on the Appalachian Trail, so real locations will be mentioned in the story.

**Trigger warnings: **

Gender dysphoria, body dysmorphia, eating disorders, homophobia, transphobia, family abuse, gaslighting, suicidal thoughts, historical reference to a real-life hate crime

**Other warnings: **

Occasional blood (because the Appalachian Trail can be brutal), sexual content, adult and mature themes, a fair bit of swearing.

**Things to look forward to: **

Hiking, nature, bears, deer, birds, tents, showers, Zero Days, bad and good weather, campfires, cooking, jokes, lame humor, food, friendship, singing, music, and, of course, love.


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